


The Proper Scot

by locogirlp



Category: Real Person Fiction
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-21
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-03-14 08:07:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,980
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3403151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/locogirlp/pseuds/locogirlp
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ever wonder if DT was a proper Scot?  This might answer your question.  Oh, and it's smutty smut smut.  It's DT, it's you.  Have at it.  It's just a little smutty one-shot.  Read at your own risk.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Proper Scot

He walks through the front door and smiles at me, then closes it softly behind him. I’ve been sitting in the chair in the middle of the room, book on my lap, waiting for him to come in. He’s worn out – I can see it around his eyes -- but he’s smiling from the reception at the premiere. He’s always energized by crowds.

He walks upstairs to our bedroom and I follow, my skirt rustling against my skin.   I lean my head against the door frame and watch him from the doorway. He sits down on the edge of the bed and his kilt falls down over his knees as he leans down to unlace his boots. I watch his hands work the clasp on his sporran, his long fingers and knuckles. He has beautiful hands.

The sporran loosens and he pushes it across the duvet, then reaches to unclasp his kilt pin. Not for the first time, I notice how good he looks in red. The buttons of his dress shirt pull tight across his chest and crinkle with his movement, the open collar exposing the first few inches of the dip underneath his Adam’s apple.

He looks up as I cross the room.

I plant my hands on each of his knees. His eyebrows dart into his hairline and he raises his lips to meet mine, but I don’t kiss him. Instead I lean into him to brush my lips against his forehead and luxuriate in the crisp, soft feel of the hair on his thighs as I slide my hands over them and under his kilt. His eyes close. I smile as I hear him suck in a sharp breath.

His hands reach up to try to clutch my waist and pull me toward him but I angle my body away from his questing fingers and push both his hands back onto the bed. _Not yet_. My fingers slide slowly through the hair on his legs and I cup his naked hips. Nothing under there but what he was born with. There’s my proper Scot.

Smirking, my thumbs trail a path across the expanse of his thighs until each nestles against the juncture of his thigh and groin. I push forward and brush his balls with each thumb until a low groan rumbles through his chest. He drops his hands from his knees and leans back against them. He is hard and proud, straining against the tartan.

His knees part and his hips slide forward as his gaze locks to mine, his eyes darkening with lust. With one smooth movement I slide one hand under his balls and cup him, rolling the orbs softly in my palm, and the other up and over, taking him in hand. I stroke him in one long pump from base to tip while my thumb brushes against the tip of his shaft. He growls. His head drops backwards and his tongue arches against the back of his front teeth as his hips jerk upwards into a thrust, pushing himself into my palm.

The room is silent except for his breathing, which comes in jagged pants.

The hand I have cupped underneath him slips back up to his hip and pushes against his hipbone. He raises his head and looks at me. I shake my head slowly. _Uh uh…..no thrusting_. He makes an inarticulate sound in the back of his throat and tests me, thrusting his hips again. I push harder and pin him back to the mattress. This time he stills, his chest heaving, grimacing with the effort to remain motionless. To reward him I curl my fingers around his shaft and grip him, gliding his foreskin upward in a smooth forward stroke. He groans, his shoulders tensing and trembling as he resists pistoning his hips.

I am still standing in front of him. The kilt slides over the tops of my palms. I stroke him again and he makes another low grunt, his knees open wider, and the backs of his knees bump against the edges of the bed. My hand remains on his hip, palm down against his pelvic bone, and I can feel the quivering deep in his muscles. He wants to thrust. He dares not.

I stroke him again, tighter, savoring the velvety skin so hard against my palm. I curve my fingers around him and stroke once more, faster, then add a few more quick strokes that cause him to gasp. He arches his back and a violent shiver courses through his body. I feel it sluice down each muscle. He digs his fingers into the bedspread.

His kilt rides up and I drop to the floor. Surging forward on my knees, my forearms resting against his thighs, I swallow him back, sliding him deep in one sure and sudden move. He groans my name and his hips thrust against me. This time, I let him. I lean into him and my tongue laves the underside of his shaft….once, twice….then I suck at him. He rocks his hips against my mouth and pushes forward, fast and hard, his pants short and erratic bursts. His hips are already losing their rhythm. He is close.

My throat opens to him as he pushes deep. He is thrusting now and his hips push off the mattress as he leans back on his hands, his face contorted in a rapture so complete it is almost spiritual. I catch only that small glimpse of the pleasure I am giving him before his jerking movements send his kilt sliding and bunching up against my lips, covering my face. I want to watch his expressions but I can’t. The kilt is blinding me.

His hips freeze and then angle backwards onto the bed and I think he is about to come. Instead he slides himself out of my mouth and I only have time for a moue of surprise before my wrists are captured in his grip and his thighs slip away from under me. The bed creaks as he shifts positions and pulls at my wrists, sliding me across the mattress on my stomach.

I hear him hiss under his breath and desire, low and dark, curls through me in a dizzying rush. In an instant I am soaking wet.

The hand clamping my wrists together tightens and he tugs my arms up over my head. Impatient fingers skate up my thighs until they find purchase and his thumb hooks into the waistband of my panties. They tear before I can scrabble to lift my hips and let him tug them down.

Cool air brushes briefly against my naked arse before he settles his weight on top of me. I see a flash of the red tartan and the scratchy wool slithers down my body. He’s kept his kilt on.

He reaches under me, pressing two of his fingers together to slide them into my slippery folds, parting my heavy outer lips. I push myself against him but he pushes back, pressing his chest against me and forcing me to be still. I tremble under him, whimpering, as his long and slender fingers open me up and push inside. He pumps once, then twice, hitting me deep, his thumb stroking my clit. A cloudburst of pleasure goes off behind my eyes and I sink into the mattress, my limbs like jelly. _Oh God, oh God…oh God_. I grind my hips into his palm.

The hair on his thighs rasp against the mattress as he pulls his legs up and tucks them under mine until my thighs rest against the top of his. The new angle pushes his fingers deeper into me, setting off the tight coiling that signals my impending orgasm, but he doesn’t let me chase the gratification he is giving me.  He pulls them out of me. Dazed, I pant, _no no no no no_ , not caring what I sound like, trying to hold onto the pleasure as it recedes with his fingers.

His breathing is harsh and I feel it rumble through his chest from where we are pressed together. He clutches at me and slides a finger once more through my folds. This time it is but a guide; bowing his back, the tip of him pushes against my opening. I barely have time to feel the silk and steel of him before he surges forward, plunging into me in one long, savage stroke.

I keen as he sinks deeper, sheathing himself within me. The wool of his kilt scratches along my tailbone and I can feel his thighs trembling. He freezes, resting his forehead against my back, and groans – a pain and pleasure sound. I rock my hips backward, experimentally, and his breath catches in a rattle in his throat as his cock swells and twitches from its seat. I whine.

Slowly he moves in me, an infinitesimal slide forward. When he does, each tiny advance and withdraw brings with it a delicious ripple of rising heat against raw nerve endings; warmth and slickness. My head begins to buzz. I strain to help him, arching my hips up as much as I can with the weight of him pinning me into the mattress. I have very little room to wiggle. His hand is still clamped around my wrists but there is little need to hold me down. I want to claw at him like a cat, knead the mattress, writhe my body against his. His weight will let me do nothing but open my thighs, rock back and forth, and crash my arse against his hips when he _finally_ decides to fuck me. The restraint fires my blood. I _want_. I _need_. _Oh, God_.

He inches up the mattress and gains purchase by tucking his knees further under me. He’s got me curled into a near half moon and his skin against mine is satiny and hot. I lean into him, pressing my hips against his, urging him….and then he stretches his body out to its full height and envelops me. Then he starts to move. When he starts this time, he doesn’t do it slow. _That’s good_. I don’t want him to do it slow.

He drives into me. As he slams deep he takes one of my hands in each one of his and our fingers curl around each other, gripping tight. His grip is the only thing that keeps me from sliding up the mattress. That, and the weight of his body, and his forearms against my shoulders. He is bracing me.  

He grunts, hoarsely, with each thrust. It is animal, desperate, needy. It is fast and demanding. My groans join his and the room is a blend of our lust, flowing from me to him and back in a loop of ever-growing kaleidoscopic circles. I shiver underneath him.

When his lips latch onto the back of my neck my desire surges upward, clouding my vision with an agony of anticipation. I arch my neck for more of him. His tongue laves the shell of my ear and I shudder, mewling against him.  His breath is coming in short grunts and gasps in rhythm with each thrust.

“Come,” he whispers, his breath hot and urgent in my ear.

And I do. I never could deny him anything.  

As it begins to wash over me I gasp, groaning into the bedsheets. My body spasms around him; his hoarse groans blend with mine. He locks his arms around me and empties himself into me.

When he collapses, he collapses onto me. We pant in tandem, and chuckle in tandem. Our bodies are soaked but still joined. And it isn’t until he softens and slips out of me that I feel the wool still scratching along my backbone.

“That’s my proper Scot,” I whisper.

“Indeed.” He licks the salty sweat off my shoulder.

 

 


End file.
